I can smell it in the wind. The air gets heavy and tight. The sky bruises. The first fat drops fall.

A storm is coming.

I know this storm too well. That’s why I start sinking as soon as I smell it.

I am overwhelmed. Life is fantastically neon after months years of sepia. But sometimes it’s too harsh for my pastel heart.

My studies are avalanching and I worry that I’m too lazy to make the grades, or too disorganised, or too arrogant. That I play the role of Potential too well to ever be anything else.

The latest rejection sits in my gut, growing roots because I just can’t let go. I try to shake the chant out of my head but it charges on: not enough, not enough, not enough. I have chosen a different perfume but I still stink of broken. I used to be a champion heartbreaker but now no one wants to touch me.

This city is an adventure and I’ve never belonged anywhere else more. But on dark, swollen winter nights, the world is too big for me, and hugs are too faraway. The murmur becomes braver: alone, alone, alone.

I hold myself and I say, ‘Don’t let the shadows drink you, darling. Let the light flow through.’

But the first fat drops pop out anyway. And then it feels like sunshine and rain at the same time.

I pull out my umbrella, that voice that says, ‘Don’t let yourself sink; this storm will pass,’

I pray for a lighthouse.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

One thought on “Lighthouse”

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